After
by balladofbliss
Summary: "He walks through the front door, and his knees buckle beneath him like someone's taken them out with a baseball bat." Post-3x10, Sam POV. One-shot.


A/N: So. That happened, huh? This came out of my emotional inability to handle the thought of our lovely pair in such a bad spot. As usual, there's a lot more feelings talk than we've ever been given, because I firmly believe that these two are capable of adult communication and will eventually figure it out. :)

Disclaimer: If I owned Rookie Blue… well, see above, re: 'adult communication.'

* * *

He walks through the front door, and his knees buckle beneath him like someone's taken them out with a baseball bat.

He's always been a little bit stoic, a little bit stiff-upper-lip. There's no tragic or pitiful backstory behind it; he never had a father figure chastise him to _be a man_, that _boys don't cry_ or any of that machismo crap. (Would've had to have a father figure in the first place, for one.) It's just who he's always been. There have been moments, of course. He wasn't exactly dry-eyed that time he dislocated his shoulder in high school, or when Jamie Brennan brought a hammer down on his hand with full force – and sure, he gets a little choked up when they have cases like Rebecca Lee's and they actually win. (He may not be one for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he's _human_, for Christ's sake.)

When it comes to personal devastation, though, he has a different go-to coping mechanism. He internalizes until he no longer can – then lashes out in the most convenient direction available. Withdraws further into himself and pushes back harder the more someone tries to get through to him.

Tells the woman without whom he doesn't want to imagine his life that he can't be a cop and be with her.

He hears the words emerge from his mouth, watches them land like a slap across her face. She's crumbling before him and won't look away; it's like she wants him to know that if he's going to do this, he gets to see what it looks like. Feel what it feels like.

And he probably should stand there and take it, probably owes her that much after shattering her heart – but instinct nags him to preserve what little remains of his own. So he turns on his heel when she tells him to go, tells himself over and over as he drives that it'll be better in the long run.

He makes it inside the house before the reality of it hits him like he watched it crash into her, and it honest-to-God takes him a minute to figure out what's happening. The apparent sudden development of a nasty head cold, gasping to breathe through strangled sobs, cool wetness on his cheeks – for something he doesn't really do, he decides pretty damn quickly that he abhors it.

They were watching a movie a few weeks before all of this went down, he and Andy, and she said something during a particularly dramatic scene about how it was always more convincing when actors ugly-cried. "No one has a lone tear falling down their face and looks perfect otherwise when they're actually losing it," she commented, stretched out on the couch with her feet resting on his lap.

He didn't totally know what ugly-crying was then, not exactly, and he's not a hundred percent on it now – but even though he can't see himself (nor does he especially want to), he has a feeling that whatever he's doing, pretty it is not.

Eventually his breathing starts to feel less frantic, his extremities less jelly-like, and he peels himself off the hallway floor. He tries to avoid his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he splashes water on his face, but meets his own bloodshot eyes when he pulls the towel away, and – yep, he looks like shit. Feels about a thousand times worse. _Isn't crying supposed to be cathartic?_ he thinks as he discards clothes in a careless trail to his bedroom. Exhaustion has been carving canyons into his bones all day, but his mind seems to pop an amphetamine or two the second his head hits the pillow. His own words play on a loop, a haunting calliope of all he can remember wanting and losing.

_You don't leave now, there's no going back_.

_All I wanted was you_.

_You won't get rid of me without a fight_.

He waits with dread for_ I can't do this anymore_ to make its way into the rotation, but it never does. He can't refute the words or change it now; wouldn't know how or where to begin. The sky is beginning to brighten as he finally falls asleep, a new mantra running laps across his brain: _After something like this, that door may as well be sealed shut_.

No going back, indeed.

* * *

In a way, he's relieved to see her pissed off. She's never really been a crier either, and he doesn't like the idea of her becoming one because of him. (Although it wouldn't have completely shocked him; their evidently futile attempt at being normal together turned them both into people slightly different than themselves.) But if it helps her, he reasons, to grit her teeth and brush past him after parade every day like he doesn't exist, then he's all for it. Being an indirect target for her anger is really the only way he _can _help her right now.

Then he sees that stupid book, and he bristles a little too much at the implication that he's a loser (even while some infinitesimal part of him is amused, because – come on, of _course _she'd dig up something like that and attempt to swear by its advice. Ridiculous shit like that is why he felt… okay, _feels_ that way about her). So he belittles her in the field and later asks for his spare keys back. Which, all right, is kind of an asshole move, but damned if it isn't so much _easier_ to be an asshole. Easier for her, too, he rationalizes. Makes it a lot simpler to feel unadulterated animosity and (God, he can't even think 'move on,' doesn't want to go there)… continue with day-to-day life.

None of the excuses stop the pang in his chest, though, when she storms into the men's locker room and slams the keys down onto the bench, eyes teeming with fury and hurt as they burn into his.

He watches her go, ignoring the less-than-subtle raised eyebrows from his colleagues. It seems his biggest mistake has been thinking several times that the worst is over, only to find that after yet another snag, the worst has yet to come.

* * *

Weeks pass, and it slowly gets… not better, per se, but less bad. Their interactions are civil, even bordering on cordial from time to time. They end up sitting next to each other one morning at parade, when the truck needs to be jump-started and she's running on McNally time and the only free spots are in the back corner. He mutters something under his breath in response to Frank's tedious description of a new initiative – not to anyone in particular, he doesn't even realize he said it aloud until he hears her snort softly beside him. He strains his eyes trying to look at her without turning his head, gives up when he sees her shooting him a crooked half-smile.

After that, yeah, he'd say things are headed toward better, to the point that he's nearly content with their circumstances the day that he and Oliver respond to a disturbance call at a halfway house. Upon arrival, they learn that one of the residents, a thirty-something man with a decent psychiatric history, stopped taking his meds and found himself a switchblade. Sam disarms him successfully, but not before his own forearm becomes acquainted with the pointy end, and Oliver's call for backup results in Andy and Collins pulling up within minutes. (_Of course it would be her_, he thinks, pressing gauze from the first-aid kit to the laceration.) It's a deep enough flesh wound to require stitches; Oliver urges him back to the car, assuring him that Collins and McNally can handle taking in the EDP. As he awkwardly gets into the passenger seat, attempting to keep the gauze in place with his opposite hand, he looks up and sees her watching him from across the lawn. She looks away quickly as soon as their eyes meet, returning to the halfway house counselor with an exaggerated determination.

The emergency room is packed, and Oliver, who has to get back to the barn, says he'll pick him up later. The triage nurse informs him with a decent amount of sympathy that stitches are likely to be near the end of the line today; he'd typically be pretty pleased not to be the first priority in a place like this, but he can only play the crappy Tetris demo on his phone so many times before it starts to tug at his sanity, and the only magazines within sight are several years old and missing half their pages. He's considering taking his chances with a needle and thread when they finally call him back. The actual suturing takes five minutes, plus another ten for a tetanus booster (he doesn't want to know where that knife has been), and he's walking back out to wait for Oliver when he sees a blue uniform and dark ponytail in the main seating area.

She almost jumps a little when she sees him, a somewhat guilty look on her face.

As much as he wants to give into the hope rising in his chest, he forces himself to consider that could be here for a completely different reason. "Everything okay, McNally?"

She nods quickly. "Yeah, fine. It's, um… how's your arm?"

"Good as new," he says, holding up the bandaged limb.

He wants to ask what she's doing there – no, forget asking, he wants to tell her he's glad to see her. And that he misses her and that he hates this and just really wants them to be _them_ again. But he hears his name being called from the triage station, and turns back to see the nurse impatiently waving a small slip of paper from her fingertips. He suddenly remembers the doctor mentioning something about antibiotic ointment. "I have to get my prescription," is what he tells her instead.

She nods quickly. "Glad you're okay," she says in a small voice, like she's attempting to swallow the words as she speaks them.

After he collects the prescription, he looks back at the waiting room. She's gone.

* * *

He told her once that talking is what she does best, but he didn't know at the time how right he was. She's amazing at it, really. A desperate suicidal guy concocts something out of the Anarchist Cookbook and straps it around his girlfriend's neck in a plan to take them both (as well as who knows how many others) out, and threatens to detonate it every time someone gets close – but she not only manages to get herself into the room, she convinces him to let her bring a team from the bomb squad.

He's outside on pins and needles along with half of Fifteen, fully expecting the building to burst into flames and debris any second, but it doesn't. One by one, everybody walks out; she's the last to emerge, her arm around the shaking girl. Situation and bomb defused, he overhears Frank offer her a week of special negotiation training with ETF. "They mentioned it awhile ago. I was just waiting for someone to really show a lot of promise," the staff sergeant tells her, his grin probably due to the fact that the division finally got something right. She's smiling too, but God, she just looks so _tired_.

It's hours and multitudes of paperwork later when he approaches the women's locker room, asks Tina Geary (to whom he's probably spoken twice in the last five years) if anyone's left inside. "Just McNally," Tina says with a smirk. "All yours, buddy."

It briefly occurs to him that he and Andy really ought to work on how prominent their dirty laundry is, but he shakes off the thought as he pushes the door open.

She's sitting on the bench, black T-shirt half-tucked into uniform pants, hands gripping the wood beneath her and eyes fixed on the floor. He approaches with deliberately loud footsteps so he doesn't startle her.

She doesn't seem at all surprised to see him when she looks up. "Oh. Hey."

"Hey." He takes a seat beside her. "You did good today."

"I guess."

"You did," he says. "And, uh… the ETF training, that's pretty great. Could lead to big things down the road, maybe."

She shrugs. "So I'm told."

They fall into silence; he tries to keep his hands still in his lap. It doesn't quite compute in his mind, feeling this awkward around her.

Finally, she fixes her gaze on him. "What are you doing here, Sam?" she asks quietly.

He bites the bullet. "I miss you."

She looks at him for a minute, uncomprehending, then shakes her head. "But you left. After you promised you wouldn't just walk out, it's exactly what you did."

"I did," he acknowledges.

"You wanted it to be over," she continues. "You wanted to be _friends_ – I mean, of all the lines I never thought I'd have to worry about hearing from you…"

"I've never wanted to be your _friend_, Andy," he interrupts. "And I didn't want it to be… I just, I needed space and I didn't know how to ask for it, so…"

"So you took it," she says flatly. "Got what you wanted, I guess."

He sighs. "Yeah, I did. Be careful what you wish for, right?"

Her face screws up in confusion. "Look, I've had a _really_ long day and I have no idea what to make of this right now. It's been weeks and suddenly you miss me – that's nice to know and all, but I don't know what that means. I don't know where you stand, and I can't…" She trails off, crosses her arms over her chest.

"Where I stand." _Now or never_. He gingerly places his hands just above her elbows, guides them both to their feet; it's the first time he's touched her in recent memory, but she doesn't flinch. "Okay. You want to know where I stand?" he asks, stepping closer and eliminating the modicum of space between them. "I love you, Andy. Always have, never stopped."

Her mouth drops open, her arms fall to her sides, and suddenly she's kissing him – or he's kissing her, it doesn't really matter, does it – and he _knows_ they should stop, that this has always been far from their problem, but he can't make himself break away from her. Can't handle the thought of letting her leave his arms again.

Eventually, she's the one who steps back. "We shouldn't," she says breathlessly, looking away.

He nods. "I know. I just… sorry."

"Don't be." She shakes her head.

He takes a deep breath. "Let me take you home." Like that first night at the Penny, except this time, that's really all he wants to do. Just wants to be around her for a few more minutes. (Hours. Decades. Lifetimes. That's all.)

Doubt once again clouds her face. "Sam…"

"Just a ride," he says quickly. "Actually, on second thought…" He digs in his pocket, pulls out the spare keys that he's carried around with the original set since the day he asked for them back. Presses them into her hand. "You drive. Meet me outside in ten."

He's at the door when she calls his name; he turns back to her.

She exhales slowly. "The feeling's mutual, you know."

Twenty minutes later, she climbs into the driver's seat. Her silence allergy is apparently contagious, because he finds himself asking ridiculously detailed questions about her upcoming training that he knows damn well she won't yet have the answers to. Eventually, though, he quits rambling about the best options for coffee near the training precinct, and she changes the subject.

"You know, I didn't like it," she says. "I still don't. But I kind of get it."

He raises an eyebrow. "You get it?"

She nods, keeping her eyes on the road. "Why you did it. I mean… was it what you thought it was going to be? Us?"

He doesn't know what to do with that one. "It was… no. Not what I thought."

"We changed, both of us. Didn't we?" She turns toward him briefly.

He nods slowly. "When you took off during suspension, I think it bothered me more than I let on. I mean, I know where you were coming from with it, but…"

"I sort of figured," she sighs. "It was like you were kind of closed off. You didn't want to talk to me about anything, and it was just hard to know what was going on in your head."

_Hey, now_. "Hate to break it to you, McNally," he says gently, "but not talking about anything went both ways."

She's silent all the way through a red light. "Okay, yeah, I wasn't too good about it either. I'm just used to dealing with things on my own, and I didn't know how to make my issues someone else's problem. Does that even make sense?"

He lets out a mirthless laugh. "And here you thought we were too different."

She pulls the truck into a spot in front of her building, puts it in park. "Look, I don't know what to do here, okay? If we're just gonna keep repeating the same crap, then…" She shrugs. "You only get one break-up."

He snorts despite himself. "What?"

"You do," she insists. "And if we're gonna try this again, and I don't know if we are or what, but… we need to figure out how to do it differently."

He looks at her steadily. "Seems like talking might be a good place to start."

She cringes imperceptibly. "Tonight?"

"No," he assures her. "Just… in general. Probably a lot we should try and cover."

"Right," she nods. "And it's okay if I need some time? Just to get through everything in my head and all that?"

"Much as you need," he says. (It's probably selfish to hope that she needs far less time than he did space, but there it is.) "Um… get some sleep, maybe we can start tomorrow? Have breakfast or something?"

She nods. "Yeah. That would be good."

He walks around to the driver's side as she hops out. "I'll call you in the morning."

She waves a little as he fastens his seatbelt, starts toward the front door. He stares at the steering wheel for a long moment before reaching for the gearshift, but hears a knock on the window before he can pull into drive.

She's outside the truck as he rolls down the window, biting her lip. "Um… I need time, still, but I also don't want you to go. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

He can't help grinning. "No, it's not." At her cynical expression, he admits, "All right, it's a little weird, but I get it."

She smiles softly. "Okay."

Upstairs, she heads into the bedroom, emerges dressed in pajamas. He stands near the door, hands shoved awkwardly into denim pockets as he glances questioningly at the couch, until she tells him to knock it off with a roll of her eyes. "If you're gonna be here, might as well be here."

They climb into opposite sides of the bed, turn the lights off. He's trying to get comfortable when he hears her shiver. (She does this all the damn time, cranks the AC or turns down the heat so she can pile on the blankets in a subarctic room – but inevitably, she doesn't have enough blankets on the bed and ends up freezing.) He wonders if he should offer to go get the throw from the back of the couch or something when he hears her voice. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

He feels the bed dip as she shifts closer. "Can I… can we…"

He stretches out an arm. "Come here." She fairly burrows into his side, and while he was more than fine sleeping next to her… well, he's not complaining about this either.

"This is totally weird, isn't it."

He smiles. "Yeah. Weird doesn't mean bad, though."

"Since we failed so colossally at normal, maybe we should just try being weird together. So far, so good," she muses.

He pulls her closer. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

"You know what they say, right?" she murmurs sleepily into his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"About what happens after you hit the bottom."

He grins in the dark, kisses her forehead.

_Nowhere to go but up._


End file.
